


Best Laid Plans

by Lady_Saddlebred



Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me [15]
Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-19
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-03-08 07:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3200294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Saddlebred/pseuds/Lady_Saddlebred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A birthday milestone comes and goes...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Laid Plans

Title: Best Laid Plans

Author: Lady_Saddlebred (cdelapin@yahoo.com)

Archive: Yes, please

Category: Q/O, Alternate Reality, Angst, Romance

Rating: NC-17

Series: Lessons They Never Taught Me in School (archived)

 

DISCLAIMER: George Lucas owned everything, until he sold it to Disney. We own nothing, just playing in his playground.

 

Special thanks to Katbear and Merry Amelie, betas par excellence! Any mistakes are mine.

 

Previous fics in series: all on AO3 website:  
Early Admission  
Lessons They Never Taught Me in School  
Lessons That Were Never on the Syllabus  
That Which Does Not Go to School  
Rainy Day Recess   
Of Popcorn and Pine Trees  
Fit to Print  
Daffodils  
Spring Cotillion  
Is That a Lightsaber I See Before Me  
A Pen for Your Thoughts  
When I Was Your Age  
Partners  
Mum's the Word

 

Summary: A birthday milestone comes and goes…

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben felt like doing a victory dance right there in the store. It was the *perfect* gift. 

 

It was even on sale.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn stood up from his desk and stretched to relieve the kinks in his lower back. Grading quizzes, setting up lab assignments, where had the afternoon gone? There was nothing that probably couldn’t have waited until next week, but he hadn’t wanted it hanging over them through the weekend. 

 

Armed with a fresh cup of tea, he sat back down and clicked on the folder marked PRIVATE. He’d found himself doing that a lot lately, sometimes several times in a single day. His secret guilty pleasure. 

 

The growing collection of candids made him smile. It had started out so innocently. He’d been idly toying with Ben’s cell phone as the young IT genius performed yet another miracle of mechanical resurrection in the lab. He’d accidentally touched the camera icon on the screen, startled when it suddenly turned into a viewfinder. Intrigued, he’d raised it to eye level, amusing himself by concentrating on Ben’s luscious arse as he bent over the work table. There was a flash and Ben had whirled around, chuckling weakly as he saw the phone in Quinn’s hand, an apprehensive look in the blue eyes.

 

“Did you just shoot me or you?” he’d asked, with a laugh.

 

“Sorry?”

 

Ben gestured to the phone. “You took a picture. Let’s see.” He took the phone and did something to it, then laughed again as he held it up. “Oh, yeah, great shot, Professor. My best side.” 

 

Quinn couldn’t help but laugh as well. Horribly composed, blurry from movement and overexposed as hell, it looked like something an insane child might have produced. Ben showed him how to delete the picture, then demonstrated the fine art of the “selfie,” capturing first his own face, then a couple of Quinn in his lab coat, and finally several of the two of them together. Quinn was reminded of the old-style photo booths at county fairs and video arcades. He and Adele had clowned their way through enough of those in their travels over the years. 

 

He’d observed students taking snapshots of themselves, seemingly at the drop of a hat, and judging from the giggles and guffaws, apparently with varying degrees of success. It had always seemed incredibly narcissistic before he and Ben had gotten together. Now he found himself almost wanting one of those infernal phones for himself. Almost.

 

Ben had uploaded the pictures into a folder on Quinn’s laptop, then shown him how to password-protect it against prying eyes. It was quite a compelling carrot to his mulish computer paranoia, probably what his sexy green-eyed pooka had intended all along. 

 

Touching his fingers to his lips and then to Ben’s smiling face on the screen, he closed the folder.

 

Damn. Now his tea was cold.

 

~*~*~*~

 

The idea had sprung fully grown out of a late-night attack of insomnia. He’d been working on a computer glitch in Adele’s office when the diminutive French professor had casually mentioned that Quinn’s birthday was in a couple of weeks. She had actually giggled while managing to look completely innocent as Ben glared suspiciously at her over the laptop’s exposed innards. 

 

The fantasy played again in his head, even as he deleted another draft of the invitation from his computer screen…

 

He’d take Quinn to their favorite restaurant, wine him and dine him with caviar and single malt whiskey, followed by a huge blood-rare steak with all the trimmings and a beautifully decorated birthday cake delivered to their table by a smiling maître d’ amid a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday To You” from the entire restaurant staff and guests. Quinn would smile that special secret smile reserved only for him, before cutting the cake and offering the first slice to his lover with a steamy, possessive kiss. The whole restaurant would spontaneously applaud, and Quinn would laugh as Ben blushed proudly in his arms…

 

Yeah, right. Fat fuckin’ chance of *that* ever happening! 

 

Damn it, they couldn’t even be seen together in public, unless they drove miles out of town. Even then, he always had the feeling people were eyeing them from behind their menus, whispering and wondering. Quinn had pointed out that such thinking was really rather arrogant, given that most people had far more important things on their minds than worrying about two grown men having dinner together in a restaurant. After all, it wasn’t as if they kissed or groped each other at the table. But, Ben reasoned, better paranoid than sorry, until they could find a way to ease their co-workers and the world in general into their off-campus relationship.

 

Though no one could stop them from having their own private celebration…

 

He resolutely bent over the keyboard again, determined to get the wording just right before putting pen to paper. He always looked forward to Quinn’s handwritten notes, and carefully saved each and every one. He supposed he could always send an email, but he wanted this to be special. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn opened the garage door and stepped inside the brownstone. Bernini rose to greet him; he scratched the big golden retriever behind the ears and promised him a walk in short order. Moving to the foyer, he stooped to pick up the mail, pushed through the brass mail slot on the front door. The usual circulars, the electric bill, a couple of catalogs. 

 

And one small hand-addressed envelope, with a local postmark but no return address. Quinn frowned, then carefully slit it open with his thumbnail and drew out a single folded note.

 

Hi, Quinn,

 

Wondered if you’d be open to changing things up a bit this weekend. 

 

Maybe for something new and different, you’d like to come over to my place  
Saturday evening? We could order in, kick back and listen to some music or  
watch TV, and just relax. 

 

Dress code is casual. 

 

Hoping Bernie might lift curfew just this once, 

 

Love, Ben

 

Quinn read the note through several times, hard-put to not seize the phone and accept at once. Ben was finally inviting him to see his apartment, a huge step forward for them both. Quinn was touched at the depth of trust inherent in the self-effacingly worded offer. 

 

He still vividly recalled the exchange some weeks earlier, when he had innocently asked to see Ben’s flat and the lad’s almost frantic attempts to dissuade him. It had only served to heighten the disparity in their lifestyles, and Quinn had beaten himself up ever since for having somehow made Ben feel less than worthy. Seeking to make amends, he’d offered his own backstory the following weekend, painful as parts of it still were, and it had gone a long way toward mending damaged fences between them. But he had also firmly resolved not to broach the subject again, until and unless Ben brought it up first. That day had now apparently arrived, and he planned to make the most of the experience.

 

Ordinarily, Quinn couldn’t care less about his birthday rolling around each year, though he dutifully celebrated those of family and close friends. He and Adele usually went out to dinner and exchanged small personal keepsakes, nothing more. Only by dint of much pleading had he finally broken Deborah Billingsley, the Dean’s uber-efficient executive assistant, of her well-meaning habit of emailing the entire campus with an announcement of his “special day.” Flowers, cards, even the occasional exotic plant would invariably flood the lab or his office. He always expressed polite thanks, of course, overlooking the implied (sometimes even flagrant) requests for singular consideration on exams or final grades. Quinn Donovan was beholden to no one.

 

Yet here was living proof that his lad was finally ready to let him in. It was both humbling and incredibly exciting. And best of all, Ben didn’t even know it was his birthday! Let him enjoy his moment without second-guessing himself over whether it was timely or appropriate. 

 

Bernini whined impatiently behind him and he reached for the leash. “All right, boyo, let’s be off, shall we?” he said, tucking the note into his jacket pocket as a talisman. He’d ring up Ben the minute they got back. 

 

He could hardly wait.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben grabbed the cell phone as it vibrated across the coffee table, barely catching it before it hit the floor. The caller ID made his pulse quicken. “Hello?”

 

“Good evening, Ben. It’s Quinn Donovan. I hope I’ve not called at an inconvenient time?”

 

Ben grinned. Hardly “inconvenient,” since he’d been practically holding his breath ever since he’d mailed the invitation two days earlier. Then again, maybe the biology department chairman was still at work, and didn’t want to arouse suspicion. Knowing Quinn’s penchant for maintaining a professional demeanor in public, he automatically responded in a similar vein. “Of course not, Professor. How may I help you this evening?”

 

There was a wry chuckle on the other end. “I was actually calling in response to a rather intriguing post I received in today’s mail. While there was no return address, a wee bit of amateur sleuthing has led me to suspect that it may have originated from somewhere within the Mineral Sciences building. I was hoping you might be able to confirm?”

 

“Hmmm,” Ben mused, deliberately playing along, even as he victoriously fist-pumped the air. Clearly his note had been well received. “Of course I’d need a bit more input to arrive at an educated conclusion, but I’d say it’s probably safe to say you’re on the right track, Professor.” 

 

“Yes, I thought as much.” Another chuckle. “A somewhat narrowed field of suspects, then. Though one does wonder why the sender apparently wished to remain anonymous. He – or she, though I suspect from the handwriting it was more likely male – was clearly able to ferret out my home address, not an easy feat without access to certain… ‘insider’ information, wouldn’t you say?”

 

“Not necessarily,” Ben retorted, with a soft laugh of his own. “Maybe the sender visited your home before. And made a note of the address.” He was rather enjoying the intellectual banter. Trust Quinn to keep even the mundane interesting.

 

“I had taken that into consideration,” Quinn agreed. “Hence my phone call. From a rather exhaustive study of the DNA on the gummed seal on the envelope, as well as fingerprints lifted from the stationery, I have deduced that it originated from a specific individual, namely yourself. Am I correct?”

 

“Well done!” Ben congratulated. “Your sleuthing abilities would put Sherlock Holmes to shame. So, I hope this means you’re in favor of the suggested itinerary?”

 

The voice on the other end of the line abruptly modulated, in both tone and tenor. “Nothing could please me more, love. Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome. I’m looking forward to it.”

 

“As am I. I’ll see you about seven o’clock Saturday evening, shall I? Until then.”

 

“Bye, Quinn.” 

 

Ben hung up with a smile, feeling as if he’d just been voted Man of the Year.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Allo?”

 

“Adele, it’s Mark Winters. I need your help.”

 

“Qu’est que c’est, Mark? Is something wrong?”

 

“No, no, nothing’s wrong, exactly. But you know Quinn’s fiftieth birthday is coming up, and seeing as how it’s such a milestone, I thought it’d be nice to have a celebratory dinner for him at Sydney Hall Saturday night. Deborah will make all the arrangements, but I need *you* to get him there, on some pretext or other.”

 

“I do not understand. Why wouldn’t you-”

 

“Because it’s a surprise, of course. Silly question.”

 

Adele sighed. “Oh, Mark, non, Quinn does not like surprises, truly. A dinner is a lovely idea, but do not try to trick him into coming. Tell him up front, s’il vous plait. Trust me on this. Please.”

 

The Dean of Students laughed indulgently. “Oh, come now, Adele, where’s your sense of fun? Quinn will love it. And think of it this way: you’ll have the perfect excuse to show off a smashing new outfit for the occasion. Just get him there, please?”

 

“Eh bien, Mark, I will try, but do not be too disappointed if he does not react as you would wish him to. Au revoir.” 

 

She shook her head as she hung up the phone. Merde. Quinn *despised* surprise parties of any kind, and made no bones about it. Mark surely knew his long-time friend and colleague better than that. And now she had somehow allowed herself to be roped into his conspiracy as well. Double merde!

 

~*~*~*~

 

Deborah Billingsley smiled and sat back from her computer. The guests had all accepted, the caterer had confirmed, and the cleaning company would be at Sydney Hall at eight o’clock sharp Saturday morning. Dean Winters should be well pleased. 

 

She only hoped Professor Donovan would enjoy the celebration. She’d always heard that he avoided surprise parties – anybody’s -- like the plague. But Professor Gauliere had promised to get him to the Dean’s home on time, and everyone knew her word was golden.

 

Glancing at her watch, she reached for the computer’s power button. She’d have just enough time to get to the dry cleaners to pick up Dean Winters’ tuxedo and her own dress before they closed.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben wiped a gritty palm across his sweaty forehead. Man alive, he had a whole new appreciation for all those entrepreneurial cleaning companies. Compared to Quinn’s spacious brownstone, his apartment was tiny, but hours of deep cleaning and straightening up had nearly exhausted him. Now all that was left was to put the new sheets on the bed and lay out the new towels and toiletries in the bathroom. 

 

He surveyed the living room with weary pride. The windows sparkled in the afternoon sunlight, and there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. He’d even dusted between and behind the flat screen TV and stereo components. This would be Quinn’s first visit to his place, after all, and he wanted everything to be perfect. 

 

He’d felt so guilty about refusing Quinn’s request to visit his apartment before. Even though Quinn had assured him it was perfectly fine, had even apologized for putting him on the spot, the carefully veiled regret in the beautiful blue eyes had haunted him ever since. And later, hearing Quinn tell his mother Jenny when she came to visit that he hadn’t “even” seen Ben’s apartment really drove the point home, made him realize he had to do something to correct the situation, and sooner rather than later.

 

He reached out to caress the framed picture on his desk. He’d snapped it on his iPhone last Sunday afternoon, at the brownstone. Quinn had glanced up curiously when he’d taken the first picture, but had voiced no objection, so Ben had taken a few more for good measure. This one had been the last, and by far the best. The noble monarch on his throne, a benign smile lighting the cerulean eyes. It reminded him of their first night together, of Quinn seated in that same oversized leather chair in his rented Scottish kilt, looking like something right out of a Jane Austen novel. It was the way he always pictured Quinn in his dreams, with Ben his devoted body servant, attending to his every need. He knew Quinn would laugh off such romantic whimsy. In point of fact, Quinn was the one who dedicated his life to the needs of others above his own. 

 

Well, this weekend it was Quinn’s turn for some well-deserved TLC.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“You’re not serious. Please tell me this is a joke.”

 

Adele watched as Quinn restlessly prowled her living room. Cosette dogged his steps, pouncing on his ankles, yet somehow managing to avoid being stepped on. 

 

“Cheri, je suis tres désolé. I tried to tell Mark you would not wish a surprise party, but he simply would not listen. You know how he is: no one can tell him what to do. We must simply make the best of it. It is only for a few hours.”

 

“Damn it, Adele, it’s more than that. I have plans of my own for tonight, and they do *not* involve Mark Winters *or* Sydney Hall!” 

 

He was practically shouting. Quinn *never* shouted. Not at her. But she had a fairly good idea of what those “plans” entailed, and commiserated with her friend’s distress. “Could you not… reschedule?” she asked. “For tomorrow evening, peut-etre? Or next Saturday? Mark has put a great deal of effort into this, mon ami. The entire Board of Governors will be there.”

 

“Mark has done nothing of the kind, and you know it,” he snarled. “Deborah will have done all the work, and he’ll take all the credit. As usual. Remind me to send her some flowers,” he muttered absently.

 

Adele nodded; she’d already ordered a dish garden in Quinn’s name, with a suitable thank-you note, to be delivered first thing Monday morning. “Eh bien, but you must still act the gentleman. Deborah will be there, too, you know. Must you hurt both their feelings *and* make me look the fool by refusing their offerings?” She caught his hand as he strode past, pulling him down onto the couch beside her. Cosette planted herself at his feet, as if daring him to get back up again.

 

Quinn fumed, but didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry, jolie,” he finally said, through gritted teeth. “I know I’m acting like a spoiled child.” He turned to her, dejection on his face. “Ben has invited me to his apartment this evening. He’s finally opening his home to me, and that’s no small thing. He’s always refused to even discuss it before now. This is *huge*. I- I hate to have to let him down.” 

 

Adele smiled sympathetically. “Je le sais, mon cher. But could you not see his apartment another time? I am sure Ben will understand. He seems a most sensible young man.” 

 

“Yes, of course,” Quinn agreed morosely, staring at the carpet. “He doesn’t even know it’s my birthday, after all.” He gave a resigned sigh. “Ah well, I suppose it can’t be helped. I’ll don the Armani and knock you up at seven. And you’d best be at your most comely. This is a special occasion.” He kissed her fingers, then her cheek and let himself out.

 

The minute his car was out of the driveway, Adele dialed the telephone, hoping to at least soften the blow. When the machine answered, she swore under her breath, then left the message she knew would be badly received. The petite Parisienne sighed. “Ah, Cosette, be glad *you* will not be at Sydney Hall tonight.” 

 

The little Maltese whimpered in agreement. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben juggled mail, packages and groceries, struggling to reach his door key. If he got a decent raise next year, he was going to have to break down and buy a car. Using the bus and an occasional emergency cab was getting to be a real pain, especially during cold, wet New England winters. Riding in Quinn’s vintage Jaguar with its luxurious leather interior made him secretly yearn for wheels of his own, and he knew Quinn worried about him trying to get around town without transportation. Maybe Quinn could help him get a good deal on something used. He was a master negotiator, and it was fun watching him in action.

 

He put the food and beer away, then took a moment to again admire his pristine apartment. Man, it looked good. And Quinn had no idea of the real reason he was being invited over this particular weekend. Or the super-special “surprise” in store. 

 

The light on his answering machine was blinking. Three new messages. His dentist’s office confirmed an appointment for next week. A friend needed help programming a new laptop, no rush. 

 

The last message had come in only moments before…

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn cursed roundly in both Irish and English as he drove back to the brownstone. Damn Mark Winters and his well-meaning, didactic, overbearing… Why in the name of Dante’s nine circles of hell did he have to throw him a surprise party! And damn it, why did he have to pick *this* weekend, *this* birthday! 

 

Ben had finally invited him to his home. Quinn had hardly been able to contain his enthusiasm when he’d called to accept. And now he was going to have to cancel, with only hours to spare, and he couldn’t even tell the lad the reason why without adding salt to the wound. Damn, damn, damn!

 

He slowed as he passed a chocolatier. When a gentleman broke a date with a lady, it was de rigeur to send flowers or candy as an apology. But what did one do when the disappointed party was another *man*? Godiva chocolates would probably just make things worse. Not for the first time did he feel like a fish out of water when it came to the ins and outs of a same-sex relationship.

 

Once home and fortified by a large cup of Earl Grey tea, he braced himself for the call he knew he had to make. This was going to be painful.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hello, Ben,” Quinn said. “How are you?”

 

“Oh, hi, Quinn.” Was it his imagination, or did the lad sound just a bit… cool? “What’s up?”

 

“I’m so sorry to be calling at the last minute like this, but I’m afraid something has come up and I’m going to have to cancel for tonight. The Board of Governors has called an emergency faculty meeting, mandatory attendance. Could we take a rain check, maybe have brunch tomorrow? You choose the place and I’ll pick you up…” He trailed off, hoping he didn’t sound like he was groveling.

 

“That’s okay, Quinn. No big deal,” Ben answered casually. Maybe a bit *too* casually. Quinn was struck by the thought that perhaps Ben might actually be relieved that he wasn’t coming. It didn’t make him feel any better.

 

“Are you sure? I’m really sorry, love. I was looking forward to seeing your apartment. Let me make it up to you, please-”

 

“Not necessary, Quinn,” Ben said. “These things happen. You don’t disappoint the Board of Governors, not if you want to keep your job. Go on to your meeting. I’ll… I’ll talk to you later. Bye.” 

 

Quinn sat numbly for a long moment, listening to the dial tone. Ben had hung up on him. Ever so politely, but he *had* hung up on him. On his birthday. Could this day get any worse?

 

Muttering dire imprecations under his breath, he climbed the stairs to get ready for the dreaded “surprise” party.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben very gently set the cell phone back on the coffee table. He’d have liked to throw it across the room, but restrained himself. Barely. Life sucked, big time.

 

In a way, he supposed it was a good thing he’d gotten Adele’s message first. At least he’d had a few minutes’ warning before his carefully laid plans went straight to hell in a hand basket. Damn Mark Winters anyway! Why did he have to pick tonight to wine and dine *Ben’s* lover at his fancy Georgian mansion? It was just one more reminder of how unequal their lifestyles were. He just didn’t measure up. Well, screw all of them. See if he gave a damn.

 

Just as he’d convinced himself it really wasn’t a big deal, his cell phone had rung. He’d felt a preternatural calm settle over him, as if he were encased in a block of ice. Butter didn’t melt in his mouth as he hit the “talk” button. 

 

Quinn had said all the socially correct things, of course. He’d even managed to sound contrite. But come on, a fucking *faculty* meeting? Couldn’t he think of a better excuse than that? Why not just tell him the truth, which was that he’d had a better offer? 

 

Oh sure, of course they could get together later, he’d assured Quinn. No biggie. But he knew he had to get off the phone, or he’d start blubbering like a baby deprived of its bottle. Hopefully Quinn hadn’t heard the tremor in his voice.

 

~*~*~*~

 

True to his word, Quinn arrived at Adele’s home promptly at seven o’clock, decked out in his custom-tailored Armani tuxedo. In retrospect, he was glad he hadn’t mentioned today being his birthday to Ben. He’d truly hated having to cancel, but he’d make it up to the lad. Maybe they could go away next weekend, somewhere nobody knew them. That is, of course, provided Ben was still speaking to him by then. The phone conversation had left him more than a little disconcerted. 

 

But tonight he’d play the happy guest of honor and at least make Adele’s evening pleasant. He owed her that much.

 

Watching the petite silver-blonde descend the stairs in a jade-green strapless gown, he gave a low whistle of approval. “You’re stunning, jolie,” he said sincerely, opening the box from her favorite florist. Carefully lifting out the wrist corsage of white gardenias, he slid it over her fingers, then raised her hand to his lips. 

 

“Oh, que c’est beau,” she enthused. “Merci, cheri. And you look very stylish as well.” She gave him a glittering smile as he draped an embroidered shawl over her shoulders and escorted her to the freshly detailed Jaguar waiting at the curb. 

 

"So how are you going to explain the fact that we’re all dolled up without giving away that you let the cat out of the bag about this ‘surprise’ party?” Quinn asked, as he put the car in gear and pulled out. 

 

“I do not intend to offer any explanation,” Adele replied airily, admiring her emerald-and-diamond earrings in the passenger-side visor mirror. “You *will* be surprised, and the evening will proceed as planned. No enlightenment is necessary.”

 

Bemused, Quinn shook his head and concentrated on the road.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Sydney Hall was ablaze with lights inside and out when they arrived. As the liveried attendant helped Adele from the low-slung car, Quinn marveled, not for the first time, how she could retain her poise – not to mention her balance – in such scandalously high heels and the form-fitting dress. She looked incredible, and for a moment he almost forgot his frustration at having to forego his plans for the evening. Tucking her hand familiarly in the crook of his elbow, they moved together to the double front doors. 

 

“Now remember, cheri, it is supposed to be a surprise,” cautioned Adele sotto voce, as he reached for the ornate door knocker.

 

“So naturally we’re dressed to the nines to pay a social call on the Dean of Students on an otherwise routine Saturday evening,” Quinn retorted irreverently. “Not to mention the valet parking and all the rest.”

 

“Naturellement,” she agreed, with a teasing smile of her own.

 

A uniformed maid ushered them inside and directed them upstairs to the ballroom. Quinn stayed half a step behind Adele on the stairs, apprehensive that she might twist one of those delicate thoroughbred fetlocks. He needn’t have worried; she moved with a fluid and consummate grace as they reached the second floor. Taking a deep breath, Quinn gave her a reassuring smile and a nod, then opened the door.

 

"SURPRISE!"

 

The noise and the flashes (feck it, Mark even had a shaggin’ *photographer* on hand) were almost a physical blow, pushing him back a step or two before he collected himself. Adele giggled at his side, and he forced a laugh and raised both hands in surrender to the inevitable. A beaming Mark Winters came forward and beckoned them both inside.

 

“Happy birthday, old boy!” he called, over the well-bred commotion. “Many happy returns. Adele, you look exquisite, as always. Thank you for getting him here.”

 

“J’ai eu le plaisir,” Adele replied with a flirtatious smile, positioning herself between the two men. Arm in arm, the trio moved forward into the room.

 

The ballroom was brilliantly lit with candelabra on the long banquet table and sconces along the mirrored walls. The Academy’s “A” crowd had turned out en masse, the women shimmering in couture gowns and jewels against the velvet backdrop of the men’s tuxedos. Even “Old Smellington” had shown up for the occasion, probably against his better judgment. Quinn nudged Adele and subtly nodded in the direction of the self-absorbed visiting English Lit professor, smiling at her amused acknowledgement. Accepting glasses of champagne from a waiter, they slowly made their way through the throng of well-wishers. 

 

Colorfully wrapped gifts covered a side table under a large banner reading, “Happy 50th Birthday, Quinn!” The Academy’s talented student chamber music quintet in the corner called to mind Mark’s Halloween gala last fall and Quinn repressed a sigh, remembering the surprising after-party he and Ben had shared at the brownstone. What was Ben doing tonight? And would he be forgiven any time in the not-too-distant future for standing him up? 

 

It was going to be a long night.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Mark gazed proudly around the room. Everything had come together perfectly, and Adele had even managed to get Quinn there without revealing the surprise. No doubt he’d wondered why she’d specified the “monkey suit,” but everyone knew she had Quinn securely wrapped around her manicured little finger. The lucky bastard.

 

Deborah Billingsley, stylishly chic in an understated gown, stepped to his side. “Well?” she asked, sipping her champagne.

 

“It’s beautiful. All of it. Well done.”

 

“Thank you. Professor Donovan never suspected a thing. And Professor Gauliere looks absolutely gorgeous.”

 

“Yes, she is,” Dean Winters murmured, dark eyes following the diminutive Frenchwoman on his friend and colleague’s arm as they greeted their guests.

 

“Maybe we’ll finally be celebrating their engagement soon,” Deborah continued dreamily. “This would be a perfect location for the wedding, you know. In the spring, right after graduation, when all the flowers are in bloom. Ceremony in the garden at sunset, and a big reception here in the ballroom. I can picture the whole thing…” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn sat at Mark’s right hand, in the place of honor. Adele sat directly opposite him. He was amused at the praise for the (in his eyes) hideous crested silver on display for the occasion. It had been thrust upon him when they’d settled the Quinntrell estate a few years earlier, and he’d promptly donated it to Sydney Hall. What went around came around, after all. The tax write-off for a “charitable contribution” was sweet irony.

 

The dinner was elegant, with a different wine for each course. Mark prided himself on his wine cellar, but it hardly registered. He struggled to make polite small talk with pretty Professor Westin in the Sociology Department and tried to appear as if he were enjoying himself, but his thoughts kept drifting back to the odd phone conversation with Ben earlier. He knew it was going to take something pretty spectacular to put himself back in his lad’s good graces. 

 

A few centuries into the evening, Mark stood and clinked his glass with his knife. The table quieted in respectful anticipation. 

 

“Quinntrell Joseph Donovan, we come together this evening to celebrate not one, but two milestones in your life. You came to the Academy from County Antrim as an eighteen-year-old freshman, and graduated four years later, with highest honors. After obtaining your doctorate from Cambridge University, you returned and began your teaching career in the Biology Department.” Professor Smyth-Wellington audibly snorted in disbelief, earning a glare from their host. Quinn rolled his eyes and Adele covered a smile with her napkin as Mark continued to regale the assembly with Quinn’s academic achievements. “Over the last twenty-five-plus years, you have risen through the ranks to chair that department with flair and your own… unique style (amused titters from the guests, and a wholly unrepentant chuckle from Quinn). And here you are, having attained, some would say, your long overdue majority. Ladies and gentlemen, please stand and raise your glasses to our guest of honor, Professor Quinn Donovan!

 

“To Quinn Donovan!” 

 

Quinn self-effacingly raised his own glass in acknowledgement. Across the table, Adele caught his eye and gave him a naughty wink. He couldn’t help but grin back. She was such a lovable little vixen. But she owed him big time for this, and he’d make damned sure she paid up.

 

A huge birthday cake was wheeled in amid genteel exclamations of pleasure, a circle of burning candles on the topmost layer. The student quintet played a dignified “Happy Birthday to You.” Quinn stood and made a show of blowing out the candles, and everyone graciously applauded again. Accepting an ornate silver server (also from the Quinntrell estate) from his host, he ceremoniously cut the first slice, which was offered to Adele with a chaste kiss. Then Deborah took over and began serving the guests, as the quintet began a dreamy, romantic waltz. 

 

Oh yes, Quinn thought, offering an arm to his lady, might as well go the whole hog. Adele’s sapphire-blue eyes twinkled up at him as they moved effortlessly together, amused as always by the oohs and ahhs of their audience. 

 

“Are you enjoying yourself, mon ami?” she asked playfully. “Mark has outdone himself, n’est-ce pas? 

 

Quinn gave a derisive snort. “Deborah did all the work, and you know it. But yes, it’s very nice, all of it. Except the silver, of course. Can you believe he actually trotted out that godawful stuff, tonight of all nights?” 

 

“But of course, silly,” giggled Adele, flashing a brilliant smile at their host as they swept past. “It was especially for your benefit. Along with his finest wines and the very best liquors.” 

 

“Aye, and then skimped on the band to pay for it all,” Quinn mock-grumbled. “They’re good, but did he have to stoop to ‘slave labor’ on my account? I hope they’ll at least get extra credit for their efforts.”

 

“Oh, I’m certain they will be duly compensated,” Adele agreed. “But they were probably thrilled at the chance to play not only for you, but for the entire Board of Governors as well.”

 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure,” Quinn drawled, expertly twirling her, then pulling her close again.

 

When the waltz finished, they adroitly deflected the less-than-subtle suggestions that the couple make it official already. It had heretofore seemed harmless fun to allow everyone to speculate about their relationship. But tonight it only served to remind Quinn yet again that he was celebrating with the wrong people. Present company excepted, of course.

 

Sensitive to her friend’s mood, Adele drew him onto the dance floor again. As they glided smoothly around the room, she spoke softly. “You have been a very good boy tonight, mon cher. I believe you have earned a reward.” She smiled at the inquiring eyebrow. “You will please to follow my lead, yes?”

 

“I believe the gentleman is supposed to lead, jolie,” he noted as he dipped her backward, bearded face inches above her décolletage. Behind them came a smattering of well-mannered applause, and they grinned at each other, even as Adele deliberately raised a hand to caress his cheek.

 

“Just this once, s’il vous plait,” she whispered, then, as the song came to an end, she made a show of reaching for his heirloom pocket watch. “Quinn, mon amour,” she said, loud enough for the guests to hear, “did you not ask me to remind you that votre maman et votre soeurs would be calling to wish you a happy birthday at eleven o’clock ce soir?”

 

Quinn gratefully seized the opening. “Oh my God, you’re absolutely right, jolie. Mark, I’m sorry, but I *have* to be there for that call. Of course, I had no idea I’d be the guest of honor at this spectacular party. But Mum is getting on in years, and I don’t know how many more birthdays I’ll have with her…” Just the right touch of wistful regret. He retrieved Adele’s shawl and purse from her chair, and they backed toward the doorway, both looking appropriately apologetic.

 

“Yes, yes, of course,” Mark agreed, clapping Quinn on the shoulder. “You can’t miss your family’s phone call. I know how infrequently you get to see them, after all.” He turned back to the room. “For those of you who may not know, Quinn comes to us from Northern Ireland, and his family still lives there. Of course they’ll want to wish him a happy birthday.” There were politely sympathetic murmurs of agreement. “But, Quinn, if your ladies are going to be calling at eleven, you’ll be hard-pressed to get there in time.” He hesitated. “I’d be happy to see Adele home for you,” he offered, with an inquiring smile in her direction.

 

“Oh, Mark, that would be tres kind, merci.” Adele laid a grateful hand on his arm. “I would so hate for Quinn to miss speaking with his loved ones.” She tiptoed to give Quinn an adoring kiss, then made a shooing gesture. “Bonne nuit, mon coeur, et joyeux anniversaire. We will talk in the morning, oui?” 

 

“If you’re quite sure, darling,” Quinn murmured regretfully, determined to play his part to the hilt. 

 

“Go on, get out of here, you overgrown leprechaun,” Mark said, with an easy laugh. “Haven’t you always told me you should never keep a lady waiting?”

 

Quinn grinned. "Mark, Deborah, thank you for a most enjoyable evening. Again, my apologies for having to depart so early, but…”

 

“Don’t worry, Professor,” Deborah assured him, with a smile. “I’ll see that the gifts are delivered to your house, safe and sound. Drive carefully, and happy birthday.”

 

“Thank you, lass. You’re too kind. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all again, and I bid you all a good night.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn drove slowly home, reflecting on the way the day had gone. He’d awakened that morning, anticipating spending the night with his handsome young lover, and fully appreciating the magnitude of the invitation to Ben’s apartment. 

 

Then Adele had broken the bad news: a “surprise” birthday party at Sydney Hall, in full evening dress, no less. He’d railed at the world’s injustice, but as the guest of honor he had to be there. So he’d played his part for his friends and colleagues until Adele, bless her sweet scheming soul, had miraculously provided him with a wholly believable out, upon which he had gratefully seized, even at the expense of leaving her to Mark’s tender mercies. Strange, she hadn’t seemed all that disappointed at remaining behind. Interesting…

 

Pulling into the garage, Quinn exited the Jaguar, already tugging his bow tie loose. Bernini met him at the door and was let out into the garden to relieve himself. Relaxing into his big easy chair with a large brandy and a sigh, he spied Ben’s note on the end table. Setting the snifter down, he impulsively grabbed his jacket from the back of the sofa.

 

Maybe it wasn't too late.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben lay on the futon in the living room, staring morosely at the ceiling and wishing Adele had never mentioned Quinn’s birthday. 

 

It wasn’t fair, damn it. He’d worked like a dog to get everything ready, and somehow managed to keep it a secret. Apparently he’d kept it *too* well, and now Quinn was at Sydney Hall – *with* Adele -- being wined and dined by the Dean of Students, the faculty, even the Board of Governors. Blaming it on a phony mandatory faculty meeting. Un-fucking-believable.

 

He sighed. It wasn’t Adele’s fault, he knew, and she *had* sounded genuinely contrite on the answering machine message. Ben knew she was on their side. But he couldn’t compete with a black-tie sit-down dinner at a Georgian mansion. All he had to offer was pizza and beer, and a movie that might call to mind memories of another night. 

 

And himself. 

 

He'd been so excited to find the movie on Blu-ray. Even if it hadn’t been on sale, he’d have bought it without hesitation. Unfortunately, Quinn didn’t even own a television, and it would have been suspicious to suddenly suggest they go home theatre shopping. 

 

He’d had to swallow his preternatural fear of Quinn seeing his tiny apartment. Quinn had never mentioned the issue again after Ben’s obvious reluctance to have him visit, but he’d still felt guilty. This had seemed the perfect opportunity to make things right. Or so he’d thought, until Adele’s contrite message had blown his plans to bits. And when Quinn had called shortly thereafter to cancel, it had only made things worse. He knew he’d handled it badly, but damn it, there’d been so little time to focus. If he’d had even a few more minutes to react, he knew he could have been more forgiving. Quinn hadn’t deserved the cold shoulder. It wasn’t *his* fault everybody wanted to celebrate his birthday… 

 

There was a knock at the door. Ben sat up, reaching for the remote control to mute the stereo. The knock came again, a bit louder this time. Probably a neighbor complaining about his taste in music, he thought petulantly. Well, too damned bad. He was in no mood to apologize to anyone about anything right now… 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn slowly climbed the stairs. How on earth did the building not have an elevator? Not that he’d have used it if there’d been one, of course. But how did they get furniture up to the upper levels? He chuckled, trying to imagine a king-sized mattress and box springs being carried up three flights. Strong backs and weak minds, no doubt.

 

Pausing on the second floor landing, he fought down a growing worry that he was making a mistake just showing up unannounced. What if Ben refused to see him, even told him to go straight to hell? He’d have just cause, after the way Quinn had brushed him off this afternoon, even lied to him about the reason for breaking off their plans. But better that than if he’d told him the truth, which was that he’d been shanghaied into a damnable “surprise” birthday party at Sydney Hall. 

 

Starting up the final flight, his bad knee beginning to feel the strain, Quinn prayed Ben would understand and forgive. He’d confess everything, grovel if necessary, but somehow he’d make things right between them. He hoped.

 

He resolutely faced the door and raised his hand to knock.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben walked to his door, prepared to tell off whoever had come to complain about… whatever. Squinting through the peephole, he froze. 

 

Oh. My. God.

 

Quinn stood in the dimly lit hallway, dinner jacket slung over his shoulder, bow tie hanging down on either side of an open-necked dress shirt. He seemed a bit out of breath from climbing the stairs, and Ben felt a pang of remorse. Quinn had come to *him*. He’d chosen *him* over Sydney Hall. It was Quinn’s birthday, and he was here.

 

With a deep breath, Ben slowly opened the door, even as Quinn raised his hand to knock again. “Hi.” His voice almost shook and he swallowed hard, struggling to remain calm.

 

Quinn gave him a small smile. “Good evening. May I come in?”

 

“Sure, yeah, please,” Ben said, stepping back to allow him to enter. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be at Sydney Hall… or something.” 

 

“Aye, I was,” Quinn agreed, tossing his jacket onto a chair. “But I *wanted* to be here. That is, if you’ve no objection.” He actually hesitated, as if not entirely sure he’d be welcome. 

 

Well, what do you expect, numb nuts? Ben thought. You’ve done your damnedest to keep him from seeing where you lived until now, and then you froze him out when he called to cancel. “No… no objection,” he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Quinn was *here*, in his living room. Wearing a tuxedo, no less. He glanced down at his own torn jeans and faded Brighton Plans t-shirt. “I’m… um, glad you came.” It sounded pretty lame, even to him. 

 

“Thank you,” Quinn said softly. “Would you mind if I sat down? Those stairs were a bit-” He gestured toward his knee with a grimace.

 

“Yeah, sure,” Ben said, waving him to the futon. “Want something to drink? I don’t have any whiskey, but there’s beer in the fridge-”

 

“A beer would be grand, thank you,” Quinn answered, with a smile. “The colder, the better.”

 

“Coming up,” Ben said, moving to the kitchenette. He pulled two mugs from the freezer compartment and poured for himself and his guest. “I always heard Brits and Irish drank their beer warm,” he said, sitting down next to Quinn. “Cheers,” he toasted, as their glasses clinked together.

 

Quinn took a long swallow. “Most do,” he agreed, leaning back against the cushions. “But I was never able to stomach warm ale meself.” He shuddered. “Revoltin’. So I just drank whiskey instead. And the occasional poteen, o’ course.” The blue eyes twinkled at Ben over the rim of his mug as he drank deeply again. “Oh, tha’s bloody grand.” The brogue fell pleasurably on Ben’s ears, and he suddenly realized that having been stood up earlier no longer mattered. Quinn was here. ‘Nuff said.

 

“So,” Quinn said, looking interestedly around the room, “I hope I’ve not overstepped my bounds, showing up like this. But you were kind enough to invite me over, and I had this sudden overpowering urge to see” -- the roguish grin surfaced briefly – “your flat.”

 

Ben laughed weakly. “Well, this is it,” he said, flinging his arm wide and nearly spilling his own beer in the process. “Like it?”

 

Quinn stood and slowly turned, taking in every detail. “Very much,” he said. “It suits you, right down to the ground.” 

 

Ben shrugged. “It’s no Taj Mahal, but it’s home.” He glanced around, trying to see it through Quinn’s eyes. Cramped, with a motley collection of second-hand furniture mostly scavenged from his parents’ home or Good Will. Except for the state-of-the-art home theatre system, and of course, his laptop. Those were what mattered to him, even if the flat screen TV and stereo components sat on makeshift stands cobbled from plastic milk crates and scrap lumber. He should probably think about getting some kind of an entertainment center. Surprisingly, he didn’t find himself defensively comparing what he had to a certain spacious, antique-filled brownstone. *This* was his gift to Quinn, to allow him into his inner sanctum, his home turf. To see the *real* Ben Kensington. 

 

“I like it,” Quinn said again. He walked over to the stereo and squinted down at the colorful gyratory display. “Does it do anything else?” he asked disingenuously.

 

“Oh, shit.” Ben grabbed the remote and clicked off the mute. The Village People’s “Macho Man” blared from the speakers, and he hastily lowered the volume. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting visitors.” Wonder if he knows the words to that one… 

 

“No worries,” Quinn said easily, moving to the desk and seating himself in the chair. “I should have called first.”

 

“No, I’m glad you’re here, I am,” Ben insisted. “I invited you, remember? But Dean Winters kind of trumped me on that one.”

 

“Sorry?” Quinn asked, puzzled. 

 

Ben shrugged. “Your birthday. I was going to have you over to celebrate, but I can’t compete with Sydney Hall.” He took a long swig of his beer to cover his chagrin.

 

Quinn studied Ben for a long moment. “You… knew it was my birthday?” he asked slowly.

 

“Yeah,” Ben said sheepishly. “Adele might have mentioned it.”

 

“Oh, Ben,” Quinn sighed. “If I had known… God in Heaven, I am so sorry. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you to think… Well, no matter. Water under the bridge, as they say.” He forced a smile. “So tell me, what did you have in mind, before Sydney Hall so inconveniently interfered?”

 

Consoled by his lover’s obvious remorse, Ben walked over to the makeshift TV stand. “Oh, nothing special,” he said carelessly. “I just thought we could have some beer and pizza. Maybe watch a movie.” He held out the shrink-wrapped jewel case.

 

“‘*Cleopatra*!’” Quinn gasped delightedly. “Wonderful movie, one of my favorites.” He looked up, eyes shining. “However did you know?”

 

Ben grinned. “Remember the night of the Halloween party? You said my costume reminded you of the togas in the film. You went on for quite a while about it.” He gestured proudly to the case. “So, high-definition, seven-point-one surround sound, director’s commentary, best money could buy,” he quipped. “Interested?”

 

“Sounds absolutely perfect,” Quinn affirmed. “What’s on the pizza?”

 

Ben shrugged, reaching for his cell phone. “Your choice. Your birthday.”

 

“No anchovies, I’m allergic,” Quinn said absently, still studying the cover. “You have more beer?”

 

“Couple of six-packs. That enough?” Ben answered, dialing. 

 

“As long as you’re nae plannin’ to try drinkin’ me under the table,” Quinn said happily, pulling his tie off and further loosening his shirt. Ben tried not to stare, but the broad chest was hard to ignore. An irritable voice on the other end of the phone line drew him back long enough to order a large supreme pizza -- no anchovies -- and a rich, gooey dessert. Somehow in all his careful planning, he’d forgotten to get a birthday cake.

 

The evening was definitely looking up.

 

~*~*~*~

 

Futons, no matter how practical otherwise, are *not* designed to accommodate six-foot-four-inch Irishmen with long legs and bad knees. Quinn brushed aside Ben’s apologies and stretched out on the floor, back against the cushions. Ben privately worried if the older man would be able to get back up, but gamely slid down beside him, pizza box on his lap. As the film’s majestic overture filled the room, Quinn gave a blissful sigh and pulled him close. The blue eyes glowed with anticipation in the light of the television screen, and Ben congratulated himself for pulling off a real birthday coup. While he hadn’t actually seen “Cleopatra” in years, he knew the basic storyline, and found himself paying more attention to Quinn’s unmistakable pleasure in the film than what was happening on the screen. 

 

When Rex Harrison took Elizabeth Taylor in his arms in the palace in Alexandria, Ben felt Quinn’s embrace tighten reflexively and snuggled into the strong chest. Quinn smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Ben deliberately kept it light and Quinn didn’t push, just settled him comfortably against his shoulder. Ben held up a slice of pizza and Quinn took a comically overlarge bite, then slowly licked tomato sauce from Ben’s fingertips. The intimate gesture resonated to Ben’s core, and he turned the slice around so he could taste from the same spot. Judging from the knowing chuckle deep in Quinn’s throat, it didn’t go unnoticed.

 

As the romance between Caesar and Cleopatra moved toward its inevitable tragic climax, the two men kissed and caressed, enjoying their slowly simmering passion. Neither was in a hurry, content to let things take their natural course. Ben never minded when Quinn occasionally broke off to concentrate on a favorite scene or recited the dialogue, pleased his gift had been so well received. Quinn had met him on his turf and hadn’t turned away in disgust. Instead, he was slumped on the floor of the apartment, still in his evening clothes, happily devouring pizza, beer and Ben’s kisses. It should have been the worst cake-and-cabbage combination imaginable. 

 

Somehow it was perfectly… *Quinn*.

 

Cleopatra sailed away from Rome on her royal barge in the dead of night, following Caesar’s ignominious assassination in the Senate chamber. Richard Burton’s Marc Anthony sadly watched her go as entr’acte music flowed smoothly from the speakers, rousing the men from their increasingly heated make-out session. Quinn’s lips were swollen from Ben’s kisses, his eyes were glazed and his dress shirt hung half out of his waistband. His mahogany-and-silver hair was mussed, and there was a smear of tomato sauce on his cheek above his beard. Ben thought he’d never looked more desirable.

 

“You’re a mess,” he said affectionately, as Quinn struggled to sit upright with a groan. 

 

“I am,” Quinn agreed. “And you’re little better, love.” Using the coffee table for support, he hauled himself to his feet. “Might I use your lavatory?”

 

“Help yourself,” Ben said, gesturing toward the bedroom, and hitting the pause button on the Blu-ray remote. “I’ll clean up some of the mess.”

 

Quinn nodded and limped away. Ben watched sympathetically. Poor guy probably hadn’t sat on a floor to watch a movie in years. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn splashed water on his face in the bathroom, grimacing at his reflection. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. Or been in one hell of a fight. The truth lay somewhere between the two. 

 

He’d come to Ben’s apartment tonight, hoping he might be forgiven for running out on him, even though it had been completely beyond his control. Ben had accepted his explanation without rancor, had even admitted to knowing it was Quinn’s birthday all along, and having planned a celebration in his honor. He’d felt about two inches tall, ashamed for having ruined Ben’s “surprise,” and worse, for having lied to the lad about why he couldn’t be there. He’d had the very best intentions, of course, but Ben had deserved better. With all its glitz and glamour, Sydney Hall couldn’t hold a candle to a night of pizza and beer in this cozy apartment, watching Quinn’s all-time favorite film with the man he loved. 

 

It never seemed to take very much to stir him where Ben was concerned. But between the stress and fatigue of the day, the wine and liquor he’d consumed at Sydney Hall, and then the beer during the movie, he fretted over disappointing his years-younger lover if things progressed any further. 

 

The obvious solution, of course, was to leave. But doing so risked causing irreparable harm to their already fragile relationship. And, truthfully, leaving was the furthest thing from his mind. He owed it to Ben to let him have this night. He’d just have to hope for the best, or at least that Ben would understand if there were any… difficulties. Damned if he’d pollute this night with any more deception. 

 

After a moment’s consideration, he unzipped his trousers and stroked himself, mentally focusing on the undisguised lust in Ben’s beautiful green eyes. His body gratifyingly responded and he sighed, as much from relief as from the sensations flowing through him. Raking his fingers through his tousled hair, he made a rude gesture at his reflection in the mirror and grinned.

 

Show time.

 

~*~*~*~ 

 

Ben threw away the pizza box and empty beer bottles. Glancing at the clock on the stove, he was surprised to see it was after two a.m. And the movie was only half over. Quinn didn’t have a television, much less a Blu-ray player, so taking the movie home with him wasn’t an option. Maybe this would be the carrot his stubborn technophobic mule needed. He’d been pretty open-minded so far about rewiring the brownstone. And a flat screen TV could be camouflaged enough that it wouldn’t wreak havoc with the determinedly old-fashioned décor. Maybe in the master bedroom, over the dresser. He could preserve the ambience of the lower level for company, while opening up all kinds of entertainment possibilities upstairs. Preferably a bit more… casually dressed. 

 

Or not…

 

Quinn walked back into the living room, then joined him in the kitchenette. “This was wonderful, Ben. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a birthday more.” He wrapped his arms around Ben and pulled him close. 

 

“You know there’s still another couple of hours left on the movie, right?” Ben asked, eyes shining with his success.

 

“True enough, but to be honest, I was havin’ a wee bit o’ trouble payin’ attention, given the company,” Quinn said teasingly. “After all, we already know how it ends.”

 

Ben drew his head down for a long, sweet kiss. “Can you stay the night?” he whispered. “I don’t have a king-size bed, but…”

 

Quinn grinned. “We’ll be thinkin’ o’ something.” He nuzzled Ben’s neck, and the younger man fairly purred as he leaned into the embrace. Then he took Quinn by the hand and led him into the bedroom. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn walked over to the bed and pushed down on it. “Hmmm, nice and firm,” he murmured. 

 

“Hard as a rock,” Ben agreed, with a leer.

 

Quinn laughed, privately hoping his efforts in the bathroom would see them through. “Patience, lad. Good things are always worth waiting for.”

 

“I’d wait a lifetime, if you asked me to,” Ben said softly, pulling him into an embrace. Quinn held him tightly, enjoying the feel of Ben’s lean firm body against his own. 

 

Ben pushed him back onto the edge of the bed and stole a kiss. “I’ll be right back, okay? Don’t move.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Ben closed the bathroom door behind him and leaned against it for a long moment, psyching himself up. The unapologetic hunger in Quinn’s blue eyes had spoken volumes, and Ben wanted this birthday to be one neither of them ever forgot.

 

Shucking off his jeans and t-shirt, he reached for the red-trimmed queen-sized sheet hanging on the hook under his terrycloth bathrobe. It took a moment before muscle memory kicked in. Drape over one shoulder, knees bare above lace-up leather sandals, gold rope belt around his waist. Only this time, there was nothing on underneath.

 

The irony made him grin. Quinn was on the other side of the door, in a custom-tailored Armani tuxedo instead of the rented woolen kilt that had ended up little better than a rag after their first encounter. That suit was way too expensive to get trashed, even if it had spent the majority of the evening on Ben’s carpeted floor, serving as an impromptu tablecloth for pizza and beer.

 

“Ready?” he called through the door.

 

“Absolutely,” came the prompt response. “Get your arse out here.”

 

Ben splashed on some of the woodsy cologne he knew Quinn preferred, took one last look at his reflection and closed his eyes, sinking fully into the fantasy he’d been cherishing for months. Then he slowly opened the door. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Kneeling at the foot of the bed, Ben ducked his head submissively. “Welcome, Master,” he murmured. “How may your slave please you this evening?”

 

The disconcerted gasp evinced Quinn’s effort to come to grips with the vision before him. Raising his head, Ben spoke softly, encouragingly, again. “Command me, my master. What is your will?” 

 

Quinn’s eyebrows were nearly in his hairline. His mouth opened, but no words came out. One hand reached out to tentatively touch the side of Ben’s head. He turned to kiss the palm, then pressed it devotedly against his cheek. “Shall I draw a bath for you, Master?” he suggested. “So that you may take your ease after your arduous journey from the Senate?”

 

“Y-yes, thank you,” stammered Quinn, apparently willing to play along for now. The calloused hand stroked Ben’s cheek more firmly and Ben leaned into the caress, before backing away slowly on his hands and knees toward the bathroom. Once at the doorway, he rose to his feet and bowed deferentially before reaching to turn on the water in the old-fashioned oversized claw foot tub and adding Quinn’s favorite musk oil. Then he glided seductively back into the bedroom, thoroughly immersed in his chosen role.

 

Carefully settling his master on the edge of the bed, Ben knelt and unlaced his shoes, pulling them off one by one, followed by the black silk socks. Quinn made no protest, but the blue eyes tracked his every move. Ben rose to his knees and carefully drew down the white suspenders, running his hands lovingly down the broad chest and flat stomach visible through the partially unbuttoned shirt. Quinn’s nostrils flared at a whiff of the cologne, jaw clenching as he struggled to maintain his composure, as befit his role as “master.” Definitely a good sign. 

 

Ben eased the pleated dress shirt off Quinn’s shoulders, and the older man silently raised his arms to give him access. Pausing only long enough to neatly hang the shirt in the closet (while treating his master to a tantalizing glimpse of his own naked backside beneath the toga), he returned to the pleasant task of disrobing his master down to his “birthday suit.” 

 

“Stand, please, my lord,” Ben requested softly and Quinn obeyed, arms hanging loosely at his sides. Ben rewarded him with a warm kiss. “My master is magnificent in his dress robes,” he murmured. “This unworthy slave is blessed by the gods to serve so handsome and honorable a man.” His voice was rough with desire, and Quinn’s stomach muscles visibly clenched in response to the verbal and physical stimulation. 

 

“Your… master… is blessed to have such a well-trained and loyal slave,” Quinn breathed, brushing the backs of his fingers over Ben’s cheek. He stumbled slightly over the title, but made a visible effort to stay in character. “Your worth is above that of gold and jewels.” He drew Ben to him and captured his lips in a possessive kiss. Ben melted against him, returning the hot kiss with his own. Then he carefully disengaged from the embrace and gestured to the bathroom, now filling with steam. “Your bath is ready, Master. Allow this humble slave to serve your comfort there.”

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn stepped into the scented hot water, groaning aloud in pleasure. Ben’s desire rose a couple of notches more at the sight of his naked “master” holding out a hand for him to join him.  
Quickly stripping out of his “toga,” he climbed in behind Quinn, reaching for the long-handled loofah and musk-scented body wash he had purchased for the occasion. He carefully soaped his master’s torso, arms and legs, then used the brush to scrub his back in a hard massage. Turning him around, he lathered Quinn’s chest, stomach and genitals, lavishing attention on the semi-erect penis and impressive balls beneath. Experience had taught him that, even when aroused, Quinn’s sex organ seldom appeared fully perpendicular while standing. Hardly surprising, given its proportions. Lying down, however, was a different matter entirely, as were his powers of rejuvenation.

 

Carefully rinsing away the suds, Ben knelt and took the head of Quinn’s cock between his lips, tongue tickling the tip until Quinn squirmed. Ben gave him a wicked smile, even as he opened his mouth to take in as much as possible, using his hands to cover the remainder of the prodigious length. He felt Quinn brace himself, then began to slowly pump in and out, an unhurried seduction designed to heighten his master’s pleasure, but not take him over the edge. Quinn groaned aloud and his hips jerked spasmodically. Ben might have choked, if his hands hadn’t been controlling how much of Quinn’s cock went into his mouth. The man was a fucking stallion.

 

Easing back onto his heels in the cooling water, he slowly raised his head. “Does my master wish his release here, or in the bedchamber?” he cooed. Given all Quinn had probably had to drink tonight, there was no guarantee how long he’d be able to hold out, and the last thing he wanted was to embarrass the older man sexually. On the other hand, if he opted to go forward, Ben’s imagination was running on hyperdrive with ways to burn this night into Quinn’s memory for a lifetime.

 

“Here,” Quinn moaned. “My slave is extremely… talented.” He sighed and urged Ben’s head back toward his straining cock. 

 

Ben obediently redoubled his attentions, glorying in the power he held over his cherished “master” in that moment. When Quinn’s climax hit, Ben swallowed as quickly as he could, then cupped water in his hands and gently cleansed the softening penis and testicles. Quinn exhaled in obvious relief, then drew Ben to his feet, holding him tightly. He was trembling from his exertions, and Ben wrapped his arms around him in silent support. His own erection twitched enthusiastically between their stomachs, but he forced himself to concentrate only on his master’s pleasure for now.

 

“Pushy bugger,” Quinn observed, reaching down to brush the tip of Ben’s cock, setting it quivering even more vigorously than before. Ben blushed proudly as his master’s warm laughter filled the room. “So tell me, my seductive slave, does this mean you find your old master pleasing as well?” Quinn purred in his ear, even as he dropped his other hand to cup Ben’s naked arse and pull him even closer.

 

“Oh, yes, Master,” Ben moaned. “You are my world, my life. Use me as you will. I am yours.” Truth mirrored fantasy in that moment. He *was* Quinn’s, body and soul, for as long as Quinn would have him. 

 

“Mmm,” Quinn mused, rocking Ben’s hips slowly against his own, creating a delicious friction for both of them. Ben was elated to feel Quinn’s cock already stirring again. Had he worried about Quinn being unable to perform? The man’s recuperative powers would make a twenty-year-old jealous! He pressed close, thrilling to the feel of their pricks rubbing against each other. His master spoke again. “Then let us exit this charming pool for the bedchamber, where we may more comfortably continue to seek our pleasure.” 

 

Suiting action to words, he stepped out of the tub, reaching for one of the burgundy bath sheets Ben had purchased the day before. Wrapping it around his lean hips, he held out a hand to assist Ben, then gathered him up in a similar towel, briskly rubbing his skin until it tingled. Ben laughingly pulled away after a few minutes and returned the favor, starting at Quinn’s red-brown head and drying every inch of him, down to his long toes. 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Quinn’s thoughts whirled. Not in his wildest imaginings could he have foreseen the way this evening had gone. And apparently, it was just getting started.

 

He was thunderstruck when Ben came out of the bathroom dressed in the “toga” from the Halloween party. But when the lad knelt in front of him and addressed him as “Master,” the world seemed to grind to a halt. He stared down at the auburn-haired “slave” at his feet and struggled to regain his composure, to play along with whatever Ben had in mind. Apparently this was part of the “birthday surprise,” and he sensed it was very important to let it play out to its logical end. 

 

“Might I draw a bath for you, Master?” Ben was saying. “So that you may take your ease after your arduous journey from the Senate?”

 

A bath sounded wonderful. “Yes, thank you,” Quinn answered, caressing the younger man’s cheek, in what he hoped was not out of character for the role into which he had been cast without warning, but was already enjoying. Ben nodded and backed into the bathroom. Steam wafted from the big claw foot tub and Quinn smiled. His head was brimming with ideas of how to make this a night they’d both remember. 

 

His “slave” had returned and now began worshipfully undressing his lord and master, starting with his shoes and socks. Then he progressed to the suspenders, followed by the pleated dress shirt, moving to hang it up in the closet. Quinn’s cock pulsed strongly at the brief glimpse of the shapely stark-naked derriere beneath the toga when the lad turned around. He was sharply reminded in that moment of Rex Harrison’s Caesar in the film, and his devoted mute slave, Flavius. The movie never hinted at any kind of physical relationship between the two men, but it was common practice for a slave to be used physically at the master’s pleasure. Somehow he doubted Flavius would have minded “servicing” the Roman general.

 

“My master is magnificent in his dress robes,” Ben was murmuring. “This unworthy slave is blessed by the gods to serve so handsome and honorable a man.” He looked up through impossibly long lashes, and Quinn’s mouth went dry at the heated gaze in the green eyes he loved.

 

“Your… master… is blessed to have such a well-trained and loyal slave. Your worth is above that of gold and jewels.” He stood and undid his tuxedo trousers, letting them fall to the floor, along with his boxers.

 

Ben smiled and led him into the steam-filled bathroom, which now smelled delightfully of warmed musk oil. He stepped into the tub, unable to hold back a happy groan. He intended to enjoy every minute of whatever Ben had planned. 

 

Soon his slave was equally naked and joined him in the tub, where he was treated to an aggressive scrubbing all over with a scented body wash that left his skin and nerve endings tingling. His lover’s intoxicating presence (and maybe, a treacherous little voice whispered in his head, the role into which he had been cast), made him feel as if he could pleasure his lad all night long.

 

Ben was kneeling in front of him in the hot water, clearly intent on driving him insane with mouth and hands. Quinn loved it when Ben pleasured him this way, and braced himself against the wall of the shower, literally breathless in anticipation. It was all he could do to not seize control of the situation, but he somehow managed to hold back and let Ben set the pace. The scientist side of his brain was in overdrive, systematically cataloging each and every sensation, change in heart rate, respiration. He knew he’d be making a lot of notes when he got back home.

 

Dimly, he heard Ben asking him if he wanted his release there in the tub or back in the bedroom. Silly question. They had plenty of time for both. Ben would be expecting them to have sex, and he planned on fucking him right through the mattress. Overlooking his earlier misgivings, the way Quinn was feeling in that moment, the lad would be lucky to be able to walk come morning. 

 

“Here,” Quinn decreed. “My slave is extremely… talented.” His hips jerked forward, seemingly of their own volition, and Ben grinned as he took the raging erection into his mouth once more. Moments later, Quinn’s climax ripped through him and he felt the world slip sideways for a long moment. Gobshite McGolrick… 

 

He pulled Ben to his feet and into his arms, glorying in the feeling of near-omnipotence. Ben’s arousal was trapped between them, and he could feel it quivering eagerly against his stomach. “Pushy bugger,” he commented idly, brushing a finger across the tip, then laughed out loud as Ben sighed and buried his face in Quinn’s chest. “So tell me, my seductive slave, does this mean you find your old master pleasing as well?”

 

“Oh, yes, Master,” Ben moaned. “You are my world, my life. Use me as you will. I am yours.” 

 

Damned right he was. And woe to anyone who tried to take him away. The thought had Quinn’s cock twitching all over again, rubbing against Ben’s in a delicious chafing. Kneading the luscious arse with both hands, he whispered in his slave’s ear. “Then let us exit this charming pool for the bedchamber, where we may more comfortably continue to seek our pleasure.” 

 

The burgundy towels were soft and warm from the steam, and appropriately oversized. They dried each other off, then moved into the bedroom.

 

~*~*~*~

 

“Slave” Ben motioned to the bed. “If my master will be pleased to lie down on his couch?”

 

Quinn hesitated. “Ben, this is all very creative, but you don’t have to-”

 

“Shhh,” Ben said, placing his fingers on his “master’s” lips. “Everything shall be as you wish it tonight, my lord.”

 

Quinn stared at him for a long moment, then silently moved to the bed and lay face-down, as requested. Ben reached for a bottle of massage oil on the bedside table. 

 

“None can compare with my master’s beauty,” he murmured, as he poured oil onto his fingers. The snort from the head of the bed was ignored; Quinn characteristically dismissed compliments on his physical appearance as idle flattery, all the while showering accolades on others. Tonight, Ben was determined to turn the tables.

 

Carefully straddling the prone body, Ben worked fragrant oil into the supple skin, kneading muscles and ligaments until Quinn groaned aloud in pleasure. Ben worked slowly from neck to toes, then back up again. Quinn was moaning steadily under him, clearly struggling to maintain the role in which he had been cast. The telltale clenching of his fists signaled to Ben that he was dangerously close to losing control. With a kiss between Quinn’s shoulder blades, he slid to the side of the bed and spoke. 

 

“If my master will be pleased to turn over, this humble slave will-” 

 

He yelped in surprise as his “master” bolted upright with a growl and pulled him down. Arms like iron bands held him in place as hot lips sucked the breath right out of his body. Ben knew full well he was in no danger, but memories of Garth’s assault years earlier inexplicably threatened, and he instinctively struggled to free himself. 

 

Quinn nuzzled Ben’s neck, obviously misinterpreting his increasingly frantic movements. “Ben,” he sighed, “you’re driving me insane. Want you so much…”

 

Ben fought against the rising panic. This was *Quinn*, the man he loved more than life. Who loved *him*. Bigger, stronger, yes, but Quinn would never deliberately hurt him. Ben *knew* that. He would *not* ruin this night for them both by letting Garth come between them. Drawing a shaky breath, he forced himself to relax into Quinn’s embrace, to return the heated caresses. He concentrated on his feelings for Quinn, on the love between them, willing his mind and body to respond to Quinn’s passion.

 

“Ben,” murmured Quinn in his ear. “Are you with me, lad?”

 

Oh, shit. Obviously he wasn’t trying hard enough. “Sure I am,” he whispered back, leaning in to give his lover a deep, reassuring kiss. “You’re amazing.”

 

“No,” Quinn said, thankfully releasing his near death-grip on Ben’s torso to cup his face with both hands. “Something’s not… right. Am I hurting you?” 

 

In that moment, Ben felt as if Quinn could see into his very soul. “Not yet,” he said, with a weak attempt at humor. “But we both know that thing down there isn’t going to wait much longer, and I have a feeling I may have a tough time walking come morning.” He gave a chuckle, and gingerly moved his groin against the turgid organ. “You’re incredible, love. You’re a fucking stallion.”

 

“All for you, only for you,” Quinn crooned, stroking his hair, his face, his shoulders, his back. “No one has ever made me feel the way you do. I can’t get enough of you. You’re so beautiful, so wonderful. I love you so much.” 

 

Ben felt himself calming under the tender words, the soothing caresses. “I love you, too,” he answered, snuggling into arms that only moments before had felt like a prison. Quinn was *nothing* like Garth, and it was totally unfair to even compare the two. He never wanted Quinn to have any reason to doubt his love for him. Garth was the past. Ben’s present and his future were right here, in his apartment, in his bed. In his arms. And tonight was Quinn’s night. 

 

Ben eased back out of Quinn’s arms, smiling down at him, loving the passion-swollen lips, the glittering blue eyes, the flushed cheeks above the beard. Not to mention the thick, pulsing pole of muscle below. Having brought his man to a pinnacle of desire, Ben wasn’t about to let it go to waste. Reaching again for the bottle of oil, he poured it straight onto Quinn’s flat belly, chortling at the gasp and reflexive tightening of the stomach muscles. The forward angle of his body conveniently camouflaged his own sagging erection. Thoughts of Garth had all but snuffed his earlier arousal, and he could only hope it would recover before it was noticed. Quinn would be devastated if he thought Ben was not turned on by his lovemaking, and the whole evening would end in disaster.

 

With a deliberately sexy smile, Ben set the bottle aside, then carefully sat up and reversed his position, now facing the bottom of the bed. He knew Quinn’s feet were particularly sensitive, and this way he could buy himself some time to recover his own desire, while driving the birthday boy right out of his mind. He massaged the soles, licked the ankles and tickled the toes where they hung over the end of the bed until Quinn laughingly begged for mercy. 

 

Quinn’s cock pulsed strongly against Ben’s backside, and he groaned out loud at the sensations. Hands groped, urging him backward. Pressing a final kiss to the long surgical scar on the right knee, Ben finally allowed himself to be moved into position, Quinn’s cock poised at his entrance. Then his cheeks were being spread, his opening carefully prepared with the same massage oil he’d used on Quinn. Even heavily aroused, Quinn was ever mindful of his partner’s well-being, and Ben felt his heart tighten. Garth had been the worst kind of animal, a sexual predator of the first order. Quinn was Ben’s *lover*. Dropping a hand to his groin, he firmly stroked himself once, twice, three times, feeling his cock re-hardening in anticipation. Yes! They were back in sync.

 

With an exultant sigh, Ben raised up onto his knees and felt Quinn's penis pressing against his now thoroughly oiled opening. He slowly lowered himself onto the erect organ, felt it entering him and pushing inward. Quinn was holding himself in one hand, while the other guided Ben down. The movements were cautious, restrained, even though Ben could feel the fingers trembling in their eagerness to possess him completely. He pushed downward against Quinn’s groin, loving the burn, the fullness, as his body simultaneously protested and welcomed the invading organ. Quinn sighed as their bodies fully merged, then determinedly lay still, giving Ben time to adjust. Ben grasped his own cock again, running his hand over the tip, slicking his length with pre-cum and the remains of the oil. Knowing Quinn was consciously holding back, he teasingly rotated his ass in a circle, signaling it was okay to proceed. 

 

Now Ben felt Quinn’s hips surge beneath him. The cock stroked across his prostate, causing him to cry out and press down, begging for more. Quinn complied, matching Ben’s rhythm with his own, and both men groaned aloud as their passions built again. Eyes closed, Ben moved instinctively, grinding against Quinn’s muscular thighs, which strained with each upward thrust. Quinn’s grip on his hips was so tight, Ben was sure he’d have bruises come morning. He knew this position would help to prolong Quinn’s erection, but having already come once earlier, he was still amazed at the man’s staying power. 

 

Ben screamed out loud as his climax swept over him, the reflexive constriction of his muscles pushing Quinn over the edge seconds later. For a long moment he floated, weightless, before gradually settling back to reality. Carefully sliding off the softening penis, he turned to face his prostrate lover. Quinn’s rib cage heaved, and his arms lay loose at his sides. When Ben leaned down and kissed him, the eyelids flickered for a long moment. Then, with an obvious effort, Quinn sat up, reaching to enfold Ben in arms that still trembled slightly. They sprawled back against the pillows in blissful silence. 

 

Ben lay quietly in Quinn’s arms, head pillowed on the strong chest. The steady thrum of Quinn‘s heartbeat, as always, lulled him into a sense of tranquility. It wasn’t Quinn’s big master suite in the brownstone; the whole apartment would probably fit in there with room to spare, if not for the books lying everywhere. The bed was too small to comfortably hold both men, but somehow they’d made it work. 

 

“Happy fiftieth birthday, love,” Ben murmured into Quinn’s chest.

 

“Forty-ninth,” Quinn whispered back, dropping a kiss on the top of Ben’s head.

 

“Huh?” Ben sat up, surprised. “Not the big five-oh? But Adele said Dean Winters was throwing you this big party for your fiftieth-” He stopped, confused.

 

“Neither Adele nor Dean Winters knows any differently,” Quinn chuckled, drawing Ben back down into his arms with another kiss. “When I came over, they got the year of my birth wrong on my student visa. I hadn’t really given it a thought since.” He stroked Ben’s hair and Ben snuggled into the embrace. “But I actually don’t turn ‘the big five-oh’ until next year. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

 

Ben feathered kisses across Quinn’s neck, chest and shoulders as far as he could reach. “I could never be disappointed in you,” he said fiercely, still feeling guilty for his earlier reaction. “You’re perfect. And now I have a whole year to come up with something special for your *real* fiftieth.” Assuming we’re even still together in a year, he added silently, then pushed that depressing thought away. 

 

“So was it jist me doin’ all the revelin’ before?” Quinn teased, brogue briefly surfacing. 

 

“No way!” Ben laughed. “I was definitely partying right along with you.”

 

“Altu do Dhia,[1]” Quinn said fervently, lying back and closing his eyes with a deep sigh. “I’d hate to think all that effort was wasted.” 

 

They lay quietly, savoring the afterglow from their intense lovemaking. Then Ben slid out of Quinn’s arms to complete the ritual they both had come to enjoy. Lovingly, he wiped Quinn’s chest, abdomen, thighs and genitals with a warm washcloth, chuckling at the gratified rumble rising from the broad chest. “Hedonist,” he teased, leaning down for a kiss.

 

“What would be your point?” Quinn mumbled, already more than half asleep.

 

“No point, love,” Ben whispered tenderly, pulling the covers up over them both. “Happy birthday.” 

 

~*~*~*~

 

Bernini greeted them eagerly when they reached the brownstone the next morning. Quinn let him out into the garden. Poor bugger had had to wait long enough as it was. Then he headed into the kitchen to make tea. 

 

Ben glanced up as Quinn returned with two steaming mugs. “Somebody’s looking for you.” He nodded toward the blinking answering machine. Quinn shrugged and pushed the Play button. Adele’s accented tones filled the room.

 

“Bonjour, mes chers amis. I feel certain Ben is with you, Quinn, and I hope you will call back while he is there. You should know what happened after you left Mark’s last night.”

 

Puzzled, the two men looked at each other. “What the hell?” Quinn murmured, even as he dialed her number. Adele picked up on the first ring. 

 

“Bonjour, mon amour. Did you get my message?”

 

“Yes, and Ben is also here, as requested. What am I about to be boiled in oil for this time, please?” He hit the speaker button. “Say hello, jolie.”

 

“Bonjour, cher Ben, ça va?”

 

Ben had absorbed enough conversational French to respond in kind. “Ça va bien, merci, Madame, et vous?”

 

“Ça va bien, merci beaucoup. Your accent is coming along very nicely. So tell me, did you and Quinn have a pleasant evening?”

 

“Um, yes, thanks for asking,” stammered Ben, blushing hotly as Quinn chuckled.

 

“Oh, I am so glad. But you should know that a certain someone may feel it his duty to meddle.” The musical voice barely suppressed a giggle, and Quinn snorted in disgust. 

 

“All right, what happened?” he asked resignedly, sitting down in his oversized leather chair and motioning Ben to the ottoman.

 

“Oh, it was tres amusant. And of course, he was careful to tell only *me*, while we were dancing.”

 

“What did that pompous pissant tell you, and why the hell would you be dancing with him in the first place?” Quinn demanded, even as Ben put a remonstrating hand on his thigh. 

 

“Oh, calm down, Quinn,” Adele replied, clearly unimpressed. “He is actually a very good dancer, and-”

 

“*Jolie*,” Quinn growled warningly, and Ben quickly intervened.

 

“Adele, I think you’d better tell us. He’s about to blow a gasket.”

 

“Oh dear, well, we must not have that, must we, Ben? Tsk tsk, Quinn, such a temper. Really, cheri, at your age you should be more mindful of your blood pressure,” she chided, still giggling.

 

“*ADELE*!” Quinn roared.

 

“Eh bien, mon ami grincheux,” Adele pouted. “He said it was unforgiveable that you had invented such a feeble excuse to rid yourself of my company. Of course, I pretended total ignorance.”

 

“Who’s she talking about, Quinn? What ‘feeble excuse?’” Ben asked.

 

“Madame de la Renarde here-” Adele made a rude noise over the speaker. “The name fits, jolie. You *are* a vixen; don’t bother denying it. As I was saying, Ben, *Madame Gauliere* told everyone last night that I had to rush home for a much-anticipated overseas phone call from Ballymena. Promptly at eleven o’clock.” His mouth quirked, and he let out a wry chuckle. “The moron figured it out, did he?”

 

“Oui. Being from London, I suppose we should not be terribly surprised. Je suis desolee, mon cher, but at least he did not broadcast it to the entire company.”

 

Okay, thought Ben, they’re talking about Professor Smythe-Wellington. “What’s his being a Brit got to do with it?” Other than Quinn inevitably disliking him for that alone.

 

“Everything,” Quinn replied, with an ironic smile. “Ballymena is five hours *ahead* of us. So eleven at night here is four in the morning there. Hardly the best time to call and wish someone in the States a happy birthday, eh, jolie?” 

 

“Exactement. But come Monday, you may yet be asked about it.”

 

“Not to worry,” Quinn assured her. “Mum and the girls *did* call for my birthday, so it wasn’t a lie. They send their love, by the way.”

 

“Wait a minute,” Ben said. “Quinn, you were at *my* place at eleven o’clock last night. How did-” Realization dawned, and Quinn nodded.

 

“They called at eleven o’clock yesterday *morning*, which would be mid-afternoon their time.”

 

“Tres bien,” enthused Adele. “So all is well, and I will now leave mes garcons doux to amuse yourselves. A bientot, mes chers!” She rang off.

 

“Incorrigible,” Quinn commented dryly.

 

“Gotta love her, though.” Ben slid into Quinn’s lap, relishing the strong arms around his waist.

 

“We do,” Quinn agreed, stealing a kiss. “Now, how shall we… ‘amuse ourselves,’ as she suggested?”

 

“In the words of a certain Irish-born biology professor,” Ben said, with a grin, “we’ll be thinkin’ of somethin’.” 

 

~end~

 

________________________________________  
[1] “Thanks be to God.”


End file.
